Tales of the City 02 - More Tales of the City

D’or.”
    D’orothea stared at her expressionlessly. Then she said, “Big fucking deal.”
    A smile fought its way through the desolation in DeDe’s face. “That’s easy for you to say.”
    “Fine,” said D’or. “Then I’ll say it again. Biiiiig fucking deal!”
    DeDe laughed at last. “Oh, D’or, thank you!”
    “Don’t mention it. Eurasians are always gorgeous, by the way.”
    “They are, aren’t they?”
    “Does Big Mama know?”
    DeDe winced, then shook her head.
    “Thought so,” said D’or.“ That’s what you’re bawling about, isn’t it?”
    “In part, I guess.”
    “What’s the other part?”
    “I don’t know. D’or … none of my friends have even called.”
    “Well, your luck is changing, hon.”
    “Why?”
    “’Cause I’m the first of your new friends, DeDe. And we’re not that easy to get rid of.” She leaned over and kissed DeDe again. “’Cept when you’re dropping babies. Then I get squeamish as hell. I’ll be here, though. Right outside the door.”
    “You don’t have to.”
    “I want to.”
    “Thanks, D’or.”
    “Do you want me to tell your mother about the babies, by the way?”
    “No. I’ll do it. I love you, D’or.”
    “Ditto, kiddo.”

Back to Nantucket?
    B URKE, OF COURSE, WAS THE HARDEST ONE TO CONVINCE .
    “It’s just plain goofball, Mary Ann. Why would a cathedral make anybody have amnesia. You seem to forget I get violently ill whenever I—”
    “You threw up at Beauchamp’s funeral, didn’t you? That was a church.”
    Burke gestured impatiently. “That was the rose, for God’s sake.”
    “But don’t you see? Maybe it isn’t the image of the rose that nauseates you. Maybe it’s just the word, the association with the rose window.”
    Looking bleaker than ever, he sat down on the edge of his bed. “It isn’t a window I see in my dream. It’s a red rose. Not a pink one or a yellow one—a red one, Mary Ann.” He peered up at her through eyes that had changed from vibrant gray to dull pewter. “I think it’s time for me to go home.”
    Her first thought was that they were already in his apartment. Then his meaning struck her like a bundle of briars across the face. “Burke, you don’t mean that!”
    The kindness of his tone was devastating. “Yes, I do,” he said softly. “I have to put this behind me, Mary Ann.”
    “But, Burke …” She sat next to him and slipped her arm across his hunched shoulders. “You’ll never put it behind until you find the cause of your amnesia. You can’t go on being terrified forever.”
    “I’m not terrified.”
    She squeezed his shoulder gently. “I know, but what about the roses?”
    “I can handle that. I just have to … I have to start getting on with life.”
    “What will you do back East?”
    “My father’s offered me a position in his publishing firm.”
    She looked at him soulfully. “Couldn’t you do something like that here?”
    He smiled, stroking her hair. “I will miss you. I should have said that first thing.”
    She felt tears welling in her eyes. “Dammit,” she said quietly. “I’m so pissed at myself.”
    “Why?”
    “I shouldn’t have pushed it. I shouldn’t have freaked you out.”
    His face turned the color of an American Beauty. “You didn’t freak me out, Mary Ann!”
    She looked at him in silence, reading the anguish in his face. Then she stood up and walked across the room. If this was it, if they had passed the point of no return, she had nothing to lose by telling the whole truth.
    She turned to face him. “Burke, the man with the transplant sings in the choir at Grace Cathedral.”
    “What?”
    “I checked on it this morning. And I think you used to sing with him.”
    “Wait a minute! How did you find that out?”
    She averted his eyes. She didn’t want to seem too proud of herself. “I … well, first I asked Jon to call the hospital and find out his name. Then I called Grace Cathedral and talked to some guy they call the verger, and he told me that the transplant man—his name is Tyrone, by the way—he said that Tyrone sings in the choir at Grace.”
    Something like hope glimmered in Burke’s eyes. “And you think … you think I sang with him?”
    “You could have,” she said warily. “You told me you sang in the choir back in Nantucket. You also told me, when we were in Mexico, that you had sent letters to your parents about attending services at Grace Cathedral.”
    Mary Ann must have looked like a frightened